Before Davy had collected his own wits and was out from the blanket Billy had sprung up like a deer; with the one motion he was on his feet, free of the blanket, revolver in hand, ready to obey Captain Hi’s sharp voice.
“Shut up! (to Left-over, who was cavorting around like whale in a flurry). Lie low, boys! Over here, together, away from the fire. Where are they, Left-over? What’s the matter? What’d you see?”
“I’m killed,” wailed Left-over. “The whole country’s full of Injuns—’Rapahoes. I shot into ’em when they were sneaking up, and then they shot me through the head. It all happened at once. But I saved the mules. I gave my life for ’em, and you-all.” And Left-over groaned vigorously.
Half deafened by the wails of Left-over, Davy had been listening hard for Indian whoop or rustle, and peering for shadowy forms. But he heard only the breathing of his companions and the grunty sighs of the aroused mules. Not a figure, except those of the shadowy mules, just visible against the sky-line, could be descried.
“Aw, shucks!” grumbled Billy, suddenly, breaking the suspense. And standing boldly, he strode to the smouldering camp-fire and thrust a bit of paper into the live ashes. He made a plain target, but he did not seem to care, and waited for the paper to flare.
In the flare they all stared around; the mules were the first things noted—but Mr. Baxter exclaimed:
“Look at Left-over! By jiminy, he is wounded! Start that fire more or make a torch so we can see. Wait a minute, Left-over.”
Left-over certainly presented an alarming sight. His face was welling blood, which streamed down upon his chest. His eyes rolled and he groaned dismally.
As Billy made another flare, Jim, nearest to Left-over, hastily examined, with eyes and deft fingers, Left-over groaning now terribly.